


End Game

by theplotholesmademedoit



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplotholesmademedoit/pseuds/theplotholesmademedoit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mandy aint here.”<br/>“I know. I didn’t come here for her.”<br/>Lip Gallagher is standing on his doorstep, the stray ends of his sweaty blond hair like curved lightning in the summer sky. </p><p>(Lip gives Mickey the talk)</p>
            </blockquote>





	End Game

**Author's Note:**

> This is in "Ticket in his fist", but all you need to know is that Terry died on the drug run in 3x06 rather then catching Mickey and Ian. Quick oneshot I write in which Lip is a properly protect older brother and Mickey may or may not pass that test. I focused a lot on the descriptions of things and their contributing to the moment. Hope you like it! 
> 
> -Sophia

             “Mandy aint here.”

             “I know. I didn’t come here for her.”

            Lip Gallagher is standing on his doorstep, the stray ends of his sweaty blond hair like curved lightning in the summer sky.

            “Ian aint here either, he’s at ROTC shouldn’t ya know that?”

            Lips electric blue eyes loop around the walls of his socket before returning to Mickey.

            “I do know that. I’m here to talk to you actually. It’s about Ian.”

            Mickey studies Lip. He seems relaxed, thumbs popping out of his belt loops and lips smudged up in their default smirk. It doesn’t look like anything’s wrong, but Mickey knows all to well the general state of the Gallagher’s lives is chaotic, so Lip’s calmness could just be a result of him being accustomed to disaster.

            “He ok?” He knows he fails to disguise the concern in his voice when Lip’s already smirking mouth strikes further upwards and his eyes prickle with his annoying intelligence. Mickey seems to have passed a test.

            “Maybe. Walk with me?”

            “Maybe? Da fuck that’s supposed to mean.”

            Lip just shrugs, shoulders shocking up and down. He’s wearing a tank top and the navy stripes of the fabric bunch tightly around his muscles when he moves. _Not as tight as Ian’s though_ , Mickey thinks, tongue twitching and unintentionally making a deep stroke on his bottom lip as he remembers the crunch of Ian’s abs under his fingers when he kissed him before he left this morning*.

            “You coming?” Lip asks, jabbing his thumb backwards at the air behind him.

            Mickey squints at him, tucking his bottom teeth into the underside of his lip so they make a taunt bulge in the skin of his chin, and then scratching his thumb in a line along it.

              He doesn’t like Lip that much. Sure he’s aright- he’s been pretty good about him and Ian, and Mickey likes knowing there’s another somewhat capable person looking out for his Gallagher, but beyond that he tolerates Lip at best. If Mickey were the type to make friends, he might make a friend of Lip if it weren’t for the cocky twist of Lip’s smile. That and the fact that he’s made Mandy cry more than once, but Mickey never got to beat the shit out of him for it because Ian has annoying amounts of self control and would leave him dry until he was blue balled if he ever inflicted as much damage on Lip as he’d like to.

             Then again “maybe ok” in relation to Ian isn’t good enough for Mickey.

           He closes the door and hops down the front steps to join Lip, dodging the raw splintered patch on the strip of wood of the third step. A metal cuff on his wrist had made that dent three years ago when his father kicked him to the floor of the porch because Mickey didn’t open the door for him.

            The first block passes in silence. The rubber that caps the toe of Mickey’s sneaker scrapes against the concrete as he walks, collecting scuffs of grey with the rocking of each step.

            “I’m leaving for MIT on Friday,” says Lip, pinching a cigarette and a lighter from the back pocket of his cargos. He wedges the end of the grey roll of paper in the corner of his mouth and holds to the flame until flecks of embers spiral into existence.

               Mickey kicks a used condom. It floats like the crashing parachute of a toy soldier before landing in a clump of weeds that crawl out from a spilt in the sidewalk.

            “Yeah. Your brother’s been acting like a fucking kicked puppy all week,” Mickey says, thinking resentfully of the sadness that’s joined weaves of green in Ian’s eyes recently, of the way he’s been gripping Mickey a little tighter and smiling a little less.

         Something like guilt flashes over Lip’s face, but clears as quickly as it came.

          “I think it’s time we had the talk.”

          “The talk. What world you living in Gallagher? This isn’t some fucking afterschool special.”

          “What are your intentions with Ian?”

         “My inten- you’re shitting me.”

          Lip seems unfazed by Mickey’s annoyance (fucking Gallaghers). He stops walking; rolling his weight on to the balls of his feet to emphasizes his height as he invades Mickey’s personal space. He keeps one hand stuffed in his pocket and the other curled around his cigarette, but bolts Mickey still against the rusty lines of the diamond fence they’re stopped by with the intensity of his stare.

         “Only a little. Look Milkovich, I know you give a shit about my brother. Ian’s a tough kid, but he’s got a bigger heart than is good for him. The point is I’m not goanna be around to protect him anymore. I need to know you won’t fuck off if shit gets tough.”

         Lip’s eyes shoot directly into Mickey’s, the yellow rings around his pupils seeming to spark as he speaks. Mickey is strongly reminded of an experiment in his freshman chemistry class the month before he dropped out, where they stuck crushed chemicals in Bunsen burners and watched the fire turn colors so bright you had to look away.

         There are a lot of things Mickey should say.

        He doesn’t even have to tell the truth, which though he hates to admit it is something along the lines of “Your brother is the best thing in my hell hole of a life and I’m not fucking retarded enough to give that up.” He knows Lip would be fine with “I’m sticking around” or even a simple “I won’t”.

          But Mickey is Mickey, and when he opens his mouth to speak none of the above actually comes out.

         “What makes you think you can ask me shit like that?”

           The sparks in Lip’s eyes ignites. His eyelids slam downwards and the puff of skin where his lower eyelashes sprout from clenches up, leaving only acid slits of his eyes exposed.

           He drops his cigarette, ash flicking from it like hail as it twirls to the ground. Lip gives a cool smile and grinds his heel on the concrete where it fell, streaking the sidewalk with nicotine guts. With a sound similar to a gasp of thunder, he gives it one last swipe of his shoe before touching the peak of his eyebrow with his index figure.  

         “I get to ask you that because you may be the baddest thug in this part of the Southside, but I’m the smartest. Make no mistake, if you chicken out and hurt Ian I will destroy you, make you beg for your dead crack whore of a mother and then some. So tell me, are you in it for the long haul or not?”

          Lip’s so close to Mickey now he can feel the tornado of Lip’s breath cutting goose bumps into the pale skin of the ligaments that frame his Adam’s apple.

           Mickey can take Lip in a fight. Mickey can probably take Lip in a fight if he was too shit faced to see straight and his Dad had come back form the dead and pistol-whipped him. He has no reason to be intimidated by Lip, but as the eldest Gallagher male’s glare fizzles and licks heat into the pinpoints of Mickey’s pores, he kind of is.

          Mickey darts a hand through his hair, figures catching on the gel that crusts the tips of the brown spikes.

          “Yes.”

          “Yes to which part Mickey.”

           He sucks hard on the wet folds of his inner cheek. As the broad points of his molars sink into the putty of the flesh he taste blots of blood and traces of Ian.

        “Yes we're fucking end game.”

          Lip smiles, smug as ever.

 

................................................................................................................................. 

*Yes they had become one of those couples that kiss eachother goodbye. Shut the fuck up. Especially you. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Do you think this was a succes or did I bomb the very existence of these characters? Kudos are chocolate chips and reviews are cookies. Thanks for reading!


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